


Desire Is a Gift in Life

by MercurialTenacity



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Background Barebones Family, Background Christianity, Dark!Graves, Depression, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not A Happy Ending, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Submission, Unrequited Love, can also be read as Grindel!Graves, emotional dependency, for a bit anyway then not so much, it’s not my fault this time though canon is sad, mental illness recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-04 23:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10292615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialTenacity/pseuds/MercurialTenacity
Summary: Credence doesn’t want very many things.  It’s easier that way.  Don’t want, and it’s hard to be disappointed.  Harder to step out of line.Until he sees the man on the street.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this fic is Credence building a relationship with Graves and dealing with mental health, but things get rough at the end, so read on with that in mind.

Credence wakes at 5:57.  He watches the second hand of the clock on his nightstand tick for three minutes.  He sits up.  Pushes back the blankets.  It’s dark outside.

He dresses.  Locates his clothes, buttons his shirt.  Laces his shoes.

It’s time to make breakfast.

Chastity is already in the kitchen.  Credence lights the stove.  Cracks the eggs into the frying pan.  Watches them sizzle, pop, crackle.

Ma says grace.  Credence eats.  Puts the food in his mouth.  Chews.  Swallows.  Clears away the dishes after.  It never tastes like all that much.

Credence doesn’t want very many things.  It’s easier that way.  Don’t want, and it’s hard to be disappointed.  Harder to step out of line.  He does as Ma says, does his duty to the New Salem Society, concentrates on God and his work.  And if the world feels colorless, well.  He’s never been convinced there were colors to begin with.

Until he sees the man on the street.

People stare at him sometimes, watch him like a mildly interesting oddity.  This… isn’t that.  For one, there’s nothing mild about it.  The intensity is what catches his attention, but when Credence moves towards him the man steps around a corner and it’s not that far away, but by the time Credence gets there he’s gone.  Credence stands there on the street, staring at the place where the man should be, and wonders if it isn’t all getting to him.

By all rights, that should be that.

It’s not.

He goes home, helps with dinner, doesn’t think about the man in the hurry of preparation for that night’s meeting.  Modesty helps him clear up after, and then he’s talking to Chastity about the next meeting, and by the time he gets into bed he hasn’t thought about the man at all.

The work is the same every day.  The same routine.  He sinks into it, prefers being busy to being empty.  Ma has stern words about idle hands anyway.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

It’s a while before he sees the man again.  When he does, when the man explains about magic and wizards and tells him he’s special, he looks away.  He’s never in his life felt special.  He hasn’t felt anything for a long time.  But there’s something, some spark in his chest, that makes him think _maybe._

So he agrees when the man – Mr Graves – asks to see him again.  He listens when he talks about magic and confirms all of Ma’s worst fears, explains about the child he’s looking for and how the world is about the change.  He doesn’t quite have the energy to hope, but he wonders, when Mr Graves tells him about the world out there waiting for him. 

He can’t picture it.  He can’t, but he thinks maybe he’d like to.

The more he sees Mr Graves the more it grows in his mind.  The idea of having some other life, being someone recognized and important.

And he can’t quite picture it, but he tries to.

His thoughts keep slipping back to Mr Graves.  Each time they meet for a stolen few moments, each time Mr Graves stands close enough that Credence can smell his scent, puts a hand on his arm, speaks low in his ear, he feels something growing in him.  The incredible things Mr Graves can do.  Heal gashes with a wave of his hand, conjure things from nothing and disappear into thin air.  His confidence, his kindness, his gentle firmness draws Credence in like an ocean current.  He doesn’t even realize he’s being swept away until he’s halfway out to sea, and then it’s too late.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

 “Credence.  Credence, come here.”

Everything hurts now.  Little things, things he’d never noticed before, dig into his chest like a knife.  Waking up in the morning he feels like he can’t breathe, the stares of people on the street make his cheeks burn, setting up chairs for the meeting last night made him want to cry.  It’s like something opened up inside him, something he’d kept shut for a long time, and now he can’t stop it. 

“Mr Graves, I – I don’t know what to do, Mr Graves.”

They’re in the empty lot behind the cobbler, and Credence keeps backing away when Mr Graves tries to touch him.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to be touched, he does – it’s that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hold together under Mr Graves’ hands, doesn’t know anymore what will open the flood of emotions he hasn’t felt in so long.

“I can help you, Credence.  That’s why I’m here.”  Mr Graves’ tone is steady, measured, and Credence wants so badly to believe him.  “You need to breathe.”

His breathing is uneven, Credence realizes.  It’s catching in his throat, hitching each time another thought springs into his head.  Mr Graves takes another step towards him, holding his hands out placatingly.  “I need you to listen to me, Credence.  You and I have a job to do.  Do you remember that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And once we finish it, do you remember what happens?”

“I… I…”

“You get to be free.  You’ll be free of this pain.  All right?”

Mr Graves is within arm’s length of him now, hands just off his shoulders.  Credence nods, and he doesn’t back away this time but he doesn’t look up either.

“That’s it.”  Mr Graves’ hands settle over him gently, drawing him in closer, closer, until Credence’s cheek is pressed against his shoulder and Mr Graves’ arms wrap around him.  Credence’s eyes are burning as the tears start to build, he knew he couldn’t hold it back, he can’t hold anything back anymore, and they fall onto Mr Graves’ coat.  “Shh.  Shh, I’ve got you.”

Credence lets himself want it, lets himself want the contact, the soothing words, the strokes through his hair and over the back of his neck, and in that moment he knows that whatever semblance of ordinary life he’s held together is gone.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Mr Graves takes him to lunch three days later.  Summons him from across the street, puts an arm around him in broad daylight, and leads him to a little corner café.

Half the menu is in French and Credence doesn’t have much of a sense for food anyway, so he lets Mr Graves order for him.  The pastries brought to the table are rich and sweet, flaky with a sort of jam inside.  As Credence bites into it he can feel the layers in the crust, the overflow of the filling around his mouth, and when the taste of it hits his tongue his eyes widen.  It’s… good.  It tastes good.  He can’t remember the last time food tasted good, but with Mr Graves so close to him, watching him eat with an expectant sort of knowing look, it’s almost hard to imagine why it wouldn’t.

Mr Graves raises his eyebrows at him and Credence, nods, swallows quickly.

“It’s good.  It’s – it’s really good, sir.  Thank you.”

“You deserve something good.  You’re very special, and you’re a great help to me.”

Credence blushes at the praise, doesn’t know that anyone has spoken to him this kindly and this unconditionally before.  He appreciates so much what Mr Graves is doing for him.

Sitting across the table, watching Mr Graves’ hands as he cuts his food, his lips as he lifts his fork, Credence realizes with a slow sort of inevitability.

He wants to join the magical world.  But it’s not half as important as being with Mr Graves.  It never had been.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

He starts to think about Mr Graves differently after that.  Spends more time thinking about the feel of his breath, the shivers that run down his spine at the feel of his hands.  He thinks of Mr Graves touching him, fingers tracing along his neck, his sides, maybe over his face.  In the dark, in his bedroom alone, what Mr Graves’ weight would feel like pressed against him, against a wall perhaps or – or, when he’s almost asleep, when he lets his thoughts drift, a bed.  He thinks of Mr Graves laying him back against the pillows, pressing him down and leaning over him, settling his weight on top of him.  He thinks of Mr Graves’ lips brushing against his ear, his neck, and then Credence closes his eyes and feels the imaginary Mr Graves’ lips against his own – And Credence has to stop himself, has to drag his thoughts to a halt.  He doesn’t know why he imagines it, doesn’t understand why it makes his body hot and makes him squirm.  There’s no good reason, no proper, decent reason that thinking of another man should make him feel that way.

It feels sinful, but it also feels like waking up.

In his thoughts Mr Graves talks to him, tells him how special he is, how glad Mr Graves is to have found him, how much he wants Credence to stay with him.  Sometimes in his thoughts Mr Graves says he doesn’t care about finding the child, doesn’t care about his work in New York, only cares for Credence and making sure they can be together.  It’s selfish, Credence knows that.  He knows how important Mr Graves’ work is, and he’ll do whatever it takes to help, but it feels good to imagine.

It’s difficult when he sees Mr Graves, when he sees the line of his coat, his posture, his walk, not to let all the thoughts better kept in the dark come bursting into his head.  He wonders if Mr Graves knows.  Credence sometimes thinks he does but he’s never sure, has no idea what Mr Graves would do if he found out.

He knows what Ma would do.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Credence is visiting churches.  Ma had visited them last month, talked to them about the threats facing New York, and now Credence is going back to talk to them again.  He doesn’t mind the conversations so much – he knows what to say, and he’s just following up.  At least other ministers didn’t tend to think he was crazy, even if they disagreed with some of Ma’s ideas.  So he doesn’t mind.  He’s glad Ma trusts him enough to do it.  Usually she would send Chastity, or at least send the two of them.  He suspects it’s a test if he’s being honest with himself, but that’s all right.

The walking is nice.  The cool air makes his cheeks flush, wind gusting past him on the street and making his coat flutter.  People are walking past quickly, likely anxious to get out of the weather.  It had rained harder in the morning, but it was still drizzling now.  The sidewalk is dotted with umbrellas and overcoats, people ducking under overhangs and sidestepping puddles.  It was hard to explain, but Credence didn’t mind it.  It’s like taking a full breath again for the first time, waking up and looking around at the world.  He isn’t happy exactly, but he isn’t in pain either.  He isn’t happy, but he feels like maybe he could be. 

Automobiles rumble past splashing through puddles, and the scent of wet pavement rises in the air.  Shop doors jingle as people walk in and out, and Credence can’t quite place value on the quality of a normal moment, but he feels like if he just keeps walking maybe he can fold it around himself, carry it with him and hold it in his mind.

Credence meets Mr Graves in the alley at 11:00, as they’d planned.  The alley is wet, spotted with puddles left from earlier rain, and rippling as they’re supplemented by new raindrops.  Mr Graves stands before him.  Mr Graves never gets wet, the rain falling around him but never quite touching.  It’s just another miracle of Mr Graves’ being.

Seeing him again makes a warmth rise in Credence’s chest, a slow sort of comfort that brings a peace over him.

“Do you have news for me?”

“A little.  Ma has been trying to get other churches to join her cause.  Some of them are listening, I think the movement’s growing.  I… I don’t know about the child, though.  I am looking Mr Graves, but…”

“The child needs your help, Credence.”  Mr Graves steps towards him, tone intent.

“I know, sir.  I…”

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no.”  Mr Graves rests a hand on his cheek, looks into his eyes.  “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

What he’s thinking about?  He’s thinking about Mr Graves’ lips.  About how soft they must feel, how gentle they would be.  He’s thinking about Mr Graves’ hands.  The warmth they bring to him, the comfort.  The way his coat scares away the raindrops.  The way his presence scares away the dark.  He’s thinking about Mr Graves’ body, his words, his kindness and strength and how much Credence needs it – how much he _wants_ it.

“You, sir.”

The sound of the rain is all around them, the patter of droplets on the street, into puddles, onto Credence’s hat.  Water drips from the brim, hits his shoulders in cold splashes.  He looks at Mr Graves, watches Mr Graves’ watching him, and the world is still around them.

“You are beautiful, Credence.”  Mr Graves’ voice is low, ardent, and his other hand finds the back of Credence’s neck while his thumb smooths over his cheek.  Mr Graves is so close to him now.  Credence smells him, smells the rain, closes his eyes.  He wants to be beautiful for Mr Graves.  He wants…

The first touch of Mr Graves’ lips is so soft, so sweet, gentle and careful against his own.  It only lasts for a moment, the slow press of Mr Graves’ lips.  Credence sways forward to follow Mr Grave’s mouth, dipping his head forward and just a hair’s breadth away.

He feels the soft huff of Mr Graves’ breath against his mouth.  Credence keeps his eyes closed, gasps as Mr Graves slides an arm down his body to wrap around his waist and press their bodies together.  It makes Credence glow, makes his head spin to feel the warm line of Mr Graves’ body against him, and he melts forward into Mr Graves’ arms.

A hand firm on the back of Credence’s neck keeps him in place as Mr Graves brings their lips together again, warm and soft and so good as Mr Graves moves his lips against Credence’s.  And then wet, wet as Mr Graves slides his tongue over Credence’s mouth, licking over his lips in such a tender way that Credence doesn’t know if he would stay standing if Mr Graves weren’t holding him up.

He’s never felt anything like it.  The warmth running through him is foreign but so nice, and Credence is drifting.  Mr Graves’ tongue is slipping between his lips, and Credence parts them easily.  His whole mouth is loose, tingling and warm and open to Mr Graves.  Mr Graves licks into his mouth slow, deep, and Credence presses his body forward.

Credence may be a sinner, and he may be a witch.  He knows what the Bible says.  But he’s alive, and there’s no way this can be wrong.  He’s kissing another man in an alley, he’s soaked through with rain and a breath away from moaning, and it’s the only thing in his life that’s ever felt right.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Credence can’t look the next minister he meets in the eyes.  He’s grateful that Mr Graves dried him off, left his clothes light and warm like they’d been hanging in the sun, or he would have been in no fit state to be seen in a church.

He’s still not in a fit state to be seen in a church.

Ma seems pleased enough with his work.  If he’s brighter than usual, and if Chastity gives him a careful look because of it, well.  Credence can’t bring himself to feel the shame of it properly.

His dreams that night are a vivid collage of sensation.  Kisses mixed together with touches he’s never felt, things his waking mind won’t let him imagine, words whispered into his ear, _so beautiful Credence, so beautiful for me_ , and when he wakes in the morning he’s hot, squirming under the sheets.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

It doesn’t fix everything, of course.  In a way it’s a new struggle, trying to fit the halves of his life together.  It makes things harder to bare, sitting in meetings and acting as though he believes it all.  He doesn’t know when he stopped believing, not really.  He doesn’t know if it was the first time he saw Mr Graves across the street, the first time he felt the warmth of Mr Graves’ hand on his arm, when he’d first heard the words _my boy,_ when he ducked his head and said _yes, yes sir_ , and when he knew that he meant it, that he took his mandate from this man who felt divine in a way no man should.

It burns so deep into his head.  The feel of him, the scent of him, the love of him.

Ma doesn’t know what it is, but she knows what it means.  He’s a sinner and he knows it as the blows fall, but he doesn’t want to repent this.

He looks to Mr Graves like a beacon in a storm, taking his direction and his conviction.  Every moment in his presence is like his head breaking water, breathing deep before he’s dragged down again.  It’s a strange sort of feeling, the decision to let Mr Graves lead and decide for him.  It settles him, gives him direction, draws him through when he has no strength of his own.  It’s a certainty of want, a certainty of his being, to give to Mr Graves what he has.  He would give as much as Mr Graves asked, and he wants Mr Graves to ask.

And he does.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

The first time Mr Graves takes him to a hotel Credence doesn’t know why.

The room is beautiful, with ornate wall paper and oak furnishings, and it couldn’t be further from the sorts of places he usually meets Mr Graves.

And then Mr Graves guides him towards the bed, and Credence’s eyes widen.  He doesn’t want to let himself want it, still isn’t fully sure of what Mr Graves intends, but as Mr Graves sits him down on the bed he feels a fragile hope rising in him.  He has his arms wrapped around Credence, breathing against his cheek, and Credence lets himself be guided as Mr Graves lays him back against the pillows.

“You know I care for you a great deal, Credence.  You’re an incredible young man.”  Mr Graves is whispering into his mouth, punctuating his words with little licks and kisses.  “I want to show you… how much… I care for you.”  Credence’s whole body has grown sensitive, tingling at every point that Mr Graves is touching him.  “Do you want that, Credence?”

“Yes.  Yes sir, please.”

And Mr Graves is on top of him, licking under his jaw, hands on his chest.  His fingers work down, gentle, slow, slipping each button out of its hole one at a time and pushing the fabric of his shirt aside, sliding it off his shoulders.  Credence moans as Mr Graves undresses him, feels fabric be replaced by Mr Graves’ hands, and suddenly they’re pressed skin to skin.

It’s incredible, the feelings buzzing over him.  Mr Graves keeps their lips pressed together as his hands trace over Credence’s chest, pleasure sinking in deep.  Mr Graves’ hands explore him, finding each spot that makes Credence gasp and moan, caressing it gently before moving on, and on, and on.  His nipples, the dip of his waist, the small of his back, the crook of his elbow, all sending hazy, pleasant waves through his mind until he can barely think.  He never wants it to end.

And then Mr Graves slides his arms under Credence and rolls them so that Credence is on top of him, their positions reversed.  Credence takes a moment to find his breath, and he pulls back just slightly, enough to take in the sight of Mr Graves.

Mr Graves is laid out before him and Credence is caught in awe.  The feel of his skin, the smell of his hair, his body laid out on the bed.  Credence never would have imagined, never had dared to hope, that he could be here in this moment.  He’s still, just looking, breathing.  It almost doesn’t feel real, like a dream that will ripple and fade the moment it’s touched.  He’s never seen another man like this, never let himself wonder if he ever could.

Mr Graves watches him, takes in Credence’s wonder, his apprehension.

“Credence.”

And that’s all it takes, all it takes for Credence to lean forward, place his hands on Mr Graves’ chest and kiss him.  Their lips just brush together as Credence nudges his head in, flicks his tongue out just for a second, waits for Mr Graves’ reaction.  And Mr Graves’ lets out a breath, his lips part, and he leans in as though chasing Credence’s lips. 

That’s all it takes, all it takes for Credence to open his mouth and press their lips together fully, dip his tongue into Mr Graves’ mouth and lick over his lips.  Credence feels his body going loose, closes his eyes as Mr Graves’ arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him and letting Credence kiss him deep.

Credence wants this, he wants it wholly and fully with a certainty and a clarity he didn’t know he was capable of, and he smiles against Mr Graves’ lips.

Mr Graves’ deep moan as Credence presses forward makes him dizzy, sends him soaring with the idea that he could make Mr Graves feel good, that he could make someone else feel good, and he would do anything if he knew it would make Mr Graves moan like that.  He needs it, feels the glow of it deep in his chest.

His hands start to wander, to move over Mr Graves’ shoulders, his neck, his chest.  His fingers catch on the stiff points of his nipples, and Mr Graves gasps short and quick into his mouth.  Credence slows, pulls back from the kiss just far enough to meet Mr Graves eyes and slowly, slowly, he ducks his head down, gazing up at Mr Graves through his eyelashes.  The first dart of his tongue is quick, tentative, but the next is longer, licking around the dark nub, pressing his lips against Mr Graves’ chest, lapping and sucking, and the gentle hand on the back of his neck is all he needs to know he should continue.  Mr Graves’ gasps and moans make Credence flush and fill with a deep warmth, so glad to know he’s doing well, so glad to make Mr Graves happy.

“So good Credence,” Mr Graves breathes, “so… so good.”

Credence smiles again, lips curving up against the soft skin of Mr Graves’ nipple, head buzzing with his words.  He brings his hand up to the other side of Mr Graves’ chest, circling his nipple with his fingertip brushing lightly and then deeper as Mr Graves presses into the touch.

Mr Graves’ breathing is heavy, and he gasps out praise around low moans.  “That’s it… _oh,_ good, such a good boy for me… doing so well.  Don’t – don’t stop Credence, you’re being so good… feels so good.”

And Credence wouldn’t stop for the world, doesn’t want to be anywhere but warm in Mr Graves’ bed, lapping at his nipples and kneading at the muscle of his chest, drawing out moans and praise and gasps.  He wouldn’t give it up for anything, has never wanted anything more.  He’s content, relaxed, mind settled.  All he has to do is what Mr Graves wants.  All he has to do is make Mr Graves feel good.

Mr Graves’ hips press up into him, rising in time with his sharp gasps.  He lays a hand over Credence’s, one hand still on the nape of his neck and pressing his head against his chest, and guides his hand down over his stomach to rest on his cock.  Credence fumbles at first, unsure where to touch or how to make it feel good, but Mr Graves shows him how to wrap his hand around the shaft, squeeze just tight enough, move his hand back and forth.

“Oh God, that’s right.”

Credence feels his own cock rising, a warm sort of pressure between his legs, but it’s not urgent, a distant sort of swelling only second in importance.

Mr Graves is bucking up into his hand, grasping at him and pulling him close against his chest.  Credence’s mouth comes off his nipple but he doesn’t stop working his tongue, licking and kissing messily along Mr Graves’ neck, under his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin.  Mr Graves is just moaning and gasping and running hands over him now and Credence can’t quite believe he’s done this, made Mr Graves feel so good he can’t find his voice.

When Mr Graves comes it’s with a bitten off groan, thrusting up erratically and holding to Credence just a little too tight.  His come coats his stomach, gets on Credence too but mostly on Mr Graves, and his grip slackens as he pants through the aftershocks.  Credence pulls back, takes in the sight of Mr Graves sprawled on the bed covered in a sheen of sweat, locks of hair falling into his eyes, white liquid striping his stomach, and he thinks that he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

When Credence can no longer ignore his own cock, when he’s squirming in little aborted movements in Mr Graves’ lap, Mr Graves gathers Credence into his arms.  Credence tucks his head against his shoulder, curling in as Mr Graves cradles him.  He doesn’t want to presume, doesn’t want to ask for more than he’s given, but he wants so badly for Mr Graves to touch him.  Mr Graves’ hand is stroking over his ribs, caressing the dip of his waist, brushing over his ass and his thighs, making Credence shiver.  And he’s murmuring into Credence’s ear, breath tickling and words making him flush.

“Look at you Credence, so beautiful for me.  Sitting so good in my lap, hm?  Such a lovely boy, doing just what I need you to.  The things you can do with your mouth Credence.  Do you have any idea how good your tongue feels, so wet and warm.  It’s like you’re made for it.”

Credence is floating along with Mr Graves’ words and he’s not expecting it when Mr Graves’ finger falls on top of his cock, stroking up from base to tip.  He whines, the feeling sparking through him, presses his hips forward involuntarily to chase Mr Graves’ hand.  Mr Graves chuckles at him, strokes him again with one finger and Credence whimpers.  He’s never been touched like this, never even dared to touch himself like this, and the feeling is incomparable.  It sparks through his mind until his only thoughts are of Mr Graves’ hand, of that feeling in his cock, body melting against Mr Graves’ chest.  Mr Graves is telling Credence to be patient, to be good, and Credence wants to he _so wants to_ , but he can’t make himself be still.  Mr Graves is laughing at him softly, telling him how much he must need it, how he must have been made to have a man’s hand on his cock.

Credence feels a wetness on his cheeks and realizes he’s crying, too overcome to hold it back.  He can’t believe anyone would do this for him, that anyone would want to touch him or be touched by him, would see him as deserving of pleasure.  But Mr Graves does.  He does and Credence doesn’t know how it’s possible, doesn’t want to think about it lest it slip away.

When Mr Graves finally wraps his hand around Credence’s shaft, twists his wrist and tugs, Credence sees sparks.  He’s never felt anything like it, the deep hot sensation sinking into him and spreading through him, starting at his cock but radiating through his body.  It mounts in him, building and building until he isn’t sure how long he can stand it, and it’s followed by a pulsing, buzzing tingle, flashing through him and oh – _oh God_ – it’s so good, so so good, the world is spinning and Mr Graves’ hand is still on his cock, drawing out the incredible feeling for so long, the world narrowed down to Credence’s body and Mr Graves’ hands.

He’s sobbing against Mr Graves’ chest with the pleasure of it, and as the rush of feeling fades he’s left with a giddiness, a light and drifting sensation in his body.

Mr Graves’ fingers trail over his stomach, and Credence realizes how messy it is.  Mr Graves draws the tips of his fingers through the stickiness, gathers it onto his finger, and raises his hand to press it against Credence’s lips.  Credence lets his mouth fall open as Mr Graves pushes his finger inside, rests it on Credence’s tongue, and Credence curls his tongue around it and sucks.  He sucks until the bitter, salty taste is gone and Mr Graves is just stroking over his lips.  Credence is content to lie in Mr Graves’ arms, body loose and soft, listening to Mr Graves’ hot breath in his ear.

“Such a good, good boy.  So pretty when you come for me.  You lie still and let me take care of you, hm?  Do you like it when I touch you?  Make you squirm in my lap.  Tell me.”

Credence hides his face in Mr Graves’ shoulder to cover up his flush, whispers like he’s afraid of being overheard.  “Yes, sir.”

“What do you like?”  Mr Graves is tracing fingers over Credence’s thighs, light strokes just brushing against his skin, fingers dipping in around his cock but never quite touching the oversensitive area.

 “I… I like when you hold me.  I like to kiss you.  And… to make you feel good, sir.”

“Very good.”

Credence closes his eyes, breathes, and when he speaks it’s so quiet he doesn’t know if Mr Graves will even hear.  “I like that, sir.”  He can’t quite explain the rush he gets when Mr Graves tells him he’s good, but he knows how warm it makes him feel.  How settled he is to know that he’s doing well, doing what Mr Graves wants.  All he wants to do is what Mr Graves wants.

“You like to be good for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like to do as I say?”

“I do, sir.”

Mr Graves tips Credence’s head up with a finger under his chin, kisses him slow, soft, and unhurried.

“Good.”

Credence dozes with Mr Graves’ arms around him, sticky and warm, feeling safe and at peace.

They don’t have many afternoons like that.  It’s difficult to steal the time away, for Credence to be gone without suspicion.  But there are other hotels, moments tucked behind corners, where Mr Graves shows Credence his love.

Every direction Mr Graves gives him is relief.  From _come here_ , to _breathe,_ to _lie still_ , it keeps him settled.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

“What about the child, Credence?”

Mr Graves has been talking more and more about finding the child, been more insistent on the urgency of the task.  And Credence is looking, he’s doing everything he can to do as Mr Graves says, but there are just so many children, and Credence doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

“I’m sorry Mr Graves, I – I don’t know.  There are… there are some, but I don’t know.”

“I need you to find this child.”

“I know, sir.  I – I’m trying, I…”

“Credence.”  Mr Graves steps in close to him, pulls him in against his shoulder and brushes a thumb across his cheek.  “After this is over we can be together.  We won’t have to hide.  I know how much you want that, and I want it too.  You are wonderful Credence, you’re mine, you’re so very dear to me.  But before that can happen I need you to do this for me.  Don’t make this take longer than it has to.”

Credence nods into Mr Graves’ shoulder, blinks back the tears pricking his eyes.  He wants to do it.  He wants to do it because Mr Graves has asked it of him and because of what it would mean for them, the life ahead of them that he can taste in Mr Graves’ kisses.

“That’s my boy.”

The hands stroking down his spine are firm and gentle, the lips on his neck warm, and it quiets his mind.

 

The task gets harder the longer it drags on.  Credence hates disappointing Mr Graves, he does everything he can think to find the child, but he barely knows where to start.  He doesn’t mean for it to take so long, doesn’t mean to hold them back, and he can’t stand the disappointment when it shows in Mr Graves’ eyes.

He wants so desperately to be free, to be with Mr Graves in the way they both want, feels the need and want burning in him at night, and the more urgently Mr Graves presses him the more he feels it build inside him.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

But he fails.  He fails, and it turns out that it was impossible to succeed.  They had been the best months of his life, by the end he’d been happy, and there’s nothing at all he can do to stop it burning to ash.

_“I’m done with you.”_

The words tear a hole through his chest.  He doesn’t remember very much of what happens after that.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

He’s huddled in an alley, weak and shaking.  He doesn’t know how he got there.  He wants to find Mr Graves, to beg of him why, _why,_ to plead that _I loved you, I gave myself to you, I was yours.  I only ever wanted to be yours._

He doesn’t know what he wants now, doesn’t know if his scorched mind is capable of want anymore.  The phantom touch of Mr Graves’ lips twists into his chest, sick and choking, and he longs for it.  He’d almost had a life.  It had been so clear in his mind, so sharply in focus each time Mr Graves was near him, because Mr Graves _loved him._  

It had been the only thing Credence had.  It had made him whole for the first time in his life.  He’d given himself to it.  He’d given up everything he had for it.  He’d needed it.  Mr Graves loved him.  He had.  He must have.

_He must have._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! :)


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